The Way of Sorrows (xii)
Nine nautical miles north of Zuwara
The passengers’ relief at being under way was short-lived. After half an hour of slow progress, crawling through the black water and away from the Libyan coast, the captain cut the engine. He let the current take the overloaded boat and they drifted. Before long the coastline was swallowed in mist and a collective anxiety spread among the people on board; a few tried to ask members of the crew what was going on, only to be told to shut up.
The sea was still and the smallest sound carried. Gebre heard the dinghy long before he saw it. The captain was listening too and he and his crew shushed their anxious cargo to be quiet as the two boats drew closer. What Gebre could hear was a man calling out in a strange sort of shouted whisper in a language and with a guttural accent that was foreign to him, though he thought he caught the odd word of Arabic. Before long the two vessels had found each other and the man in the dinghy threw a couple of thick ropes up to the crew of the fishing boat so they could tether the two side by side. Gebre studied the dinghy: it was plastic, bright yellow and the word Zodiac was stamped on one end – it was the opposite of seaworthy. His fellow passengers were panicking now and the crew were having real trouble calming them; they wanted to know what was going on, what did the arrival of the dinghy mean? Gebre didn’t need to ask, he knew: despite the huge amount of money he’d been paid, the man with feet like hands was not willing to risk losing his boat to the Italian or Libyan coastguard or whoever else might find this shipload of unfortunates. Instead he was going to decant his passengers into dinghies like this one and let them find their own way to Italy. His men had placed planks of wood across the floor of the Zodiac, to make the flimsy boat a little more solid.
The crew started herding the men, women and children standing closest to the dinghy over the side of the fishing boat and down a short ladder. They were received by another man whose job it was to position them properly. One person was ordered to sit with their back against the side of the yellow Zodiac and then open their legs so the next person could be fitted in between. The crew assembled the human jigsaw with surprising speed; women with children in arms were allowed a few extra inches. Before long there were nearly eighty people squeezed into the boat.
Gebre watched the operation closely, weighing up whether it would be better to be in this first dinghy or a subsequent one when he heard the captain calling out his and Solomon’s names. Gebre raised his hand and the captain pushed through the crowd.
‘You two are Hassen brothers?’
They nodded.
‘This first boat is yours.’
‘Why?’
The captain shrugged. ‘We need some strong ones in each boat, this is yours. Get in.’
Gebre sensed that Solomon was ready to argue and put a hand on his brother’s arm. Perhaps his friend Wanis had arranged for them to be placed in the first boat? There was no reason to believe that the next dinghy that arrived would be any improvement on this one and a good chance that it could be even worse. At least this one appeared to have a working outboard motor and one of the crew was teaching a middle-aged Ethiopian how to start the motor and hold the tiller steady. He also handed the man a clear plastic bag containing a couple of boxy-looking electronic devices; the Ethiopian looked reasonably competent and was listening attentively to his instructions. Gebre and Solomon were among the last to climb down the wooden ladder from the fishing boat into the Zodiac. As they did, a thought occurred to Gebre and he shouted up at the captain.
‘Sir, sir, we will need more food.’
The Libyan shook his head. ‘No, you will be fine. You will be sitting down with a big plate of pasta in a few hours’ time!’ The man gave them a gap-toothed grin but Gebre noticed that the younger man next to him, similar in features but slighter in build, was not smiling.
‘At least leave us some water, sir, we will need water.’
The young man pulled at the captain’s sleeve and whispered a few urgent words close to his ear. The older man snarled back but then nodded and his son disappeared below deck, returning moments later with a packet of biscuits tucked under his arm and a five-litre bottle of water in each hand. The captain grabbed one of the large water bottles from him, swearing loudly at the boy before jutting his chin in the direction of the ladder. The young man lay belly down on the deck of the boat and passed the biscuits and the bottle of water he’d been allowed to keep hold of down into the dinghy. Solomon took them with a nod of gratitude and a few words of thanks, but Gebre noticed that the young man could not look his brother in the eye.
34 Crooked Wood
DATELINE: The Embankment, London SW1, February 10 2011
Bellquist was on foot and bang on time. He walked once past the bench where Rob Mariscal was sitting then circled back and sat down next to him.
‘Morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Glorious, isn’t it?’
It wasn’t quite seven. The sky was cloudless and the palest shade of blue. To their left, the sun was rising over Docklands – strong and bright despite the early hour. It lit London, turning the river molten.
Bellquist sighed. ‘Well done on getting the right bench.’
Rob shrugged.
‘And thank you for agreeing to see me.’
‘My boss didn’t give me a lot of choice.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘No, I suppose not. So, Rob …’ Bellquist paused. ‘Is it Rob or Robert?’
‘Either. Rob probably. Only my mother and the permanent secretary call me Robert.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘Then it’s Rob, I’m not your mother. More like a friendly big brother. So, what are you like with your Greek fables? Remember much from school?’
‘A bit.’
‘Are you familiar with the story of Androcles?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘I’ll remind you: your man Androcles removes a thorn from the huge lion’s paw and in return he gets a big old reward.’
Rob nodded; he was pretty sure the story was more complicated than that.
‘That’s what we’re dealing with here: I’m the lion, your friend William Carver is the troublesome thorn and you? You get to be the hero.’
‘I see. Well, William’s not really my—’
‘Carver’s started hanging around my HQ – upsetting people. Do you know my offices?’
Rob shook his head.
‘They’re very neat. Clean lines, lots of marble. We’ve got the tallest atrium in the world, it’s really beautiful.’
‘Right, well—’
‘He was there most of yesterday, making the place look untidy. He even went and talked to my driver, Andrew. I’ve had my driver a long time.’ Bellquist glanced right down Embankment towards Westminster. A jogger in bright Day-Glo colours was approaching; he lowered his head and let her stride by. ‘Anyway, he upset Andrew.’
‘I understand. And this is still about the tear gas, is it? He’s asking more questions?’
‘He is, though God knows why; we gave him the statement. The gas was old stock, it was all above board when we sold it.’
‘And that’s true?’
‘More or less. Anyway we gave him the statement, we sent the same statement to his boss but he still keeps sniffing around. He’s got no evidence, no interviews.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know. He’s got nothing. So why is he still banging away at this?’
‘That’s what he does.’
Bellquist shook his head, he didn’t like this answer. ‘I’m getting my lawyer to send his editor a letter. They do a nice line in terrifying letters and that’s worked before. Sometimes I don’t even need the letter, I just get the lawyer to phone up and tell them how litigious I am.’
Rob shook his head. ‘I spoke to his editor, I told her all that.’
‘And it didn’t work?’
‘It doesn’t sound like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘She’
s a better hack than I gave her credit for.’
Bellquist pulled a face. ‘Allow me to tell you something about myself, Rob, something that not that many people know. I’m actually a very cautious person, all the hail fellow well-met stuff is largely for show. I am careful.’
‘I understand.’
‘William Carver’s timing is bad. There are a lot of things in play right now. New opportunities opening up and I can’t afford to take risks.’ The jogger was making a return pass, and both men lowered their heads as though in prayer. ‘So here’s what I’d like you to do. I’d like you to talk to him, persuade him to drop it.’
Rob smiled. ‘You make it sound very simple.’
‘It is simple. Sit down with him, offer him something.’
Mariscal tried and failed to stifle a laugh. ‘Offer him something? Like what? Money?’
‘Everyone has their price.’
‘Not Carver.’
‘Everyone. You just have to work out what it is and then decide whether you’re willing to pay it.’
Rob shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you don’t know William, he has no interest in—’
‘He values his reputation.’
‘What?’
Bellquist pulled an envelope from his pocket ‘So how about you try offering him this.’ He handed the manila envelope to Mariscal.
‘What is it?’ Rob took a look inside the envelope and saw some sheets of paper and a memory stick.
‘It’s his reputation. It’s a copy of every password he uses for every device and bank account. All his little password-protected projects too. Plus a copy of his entire hard drive.’
‘You hacked into his home computer.’
‘If he follows me, I’m going to follow him – physically, digitally, whatever. Imagine how horrible it would be if we found out that William had loads of really unpleasant material all over his hard drive, and his laptop and his phone. I mean the kind of images the worst sort of paedophiles pass around. The police take that sort of thing very seriously these days. And the papers love that kind of story, don’t they?’ Bellquist smiled at Rob. ‘You know that better than me.’
Mariscal stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket and tried to rub some of the cold from his hands. ‘I see.’
‘It can destroy a man, that kind of thing. I’ve seen it happen – several times. So talk to Carver, explain the situation. Can you do that for me, Rob?’
‘I suppose I can.’
Bellquist nodded. ‘Good man.’ He stood and turned, looking down at Mariscal. ‘Do you know how much I pay the chap who does my press work?’
Rob shook his head.
‘You remember Paul? You sat opposite him at that dinner at the Tower.’
Rob nodded.
‘Paul gets two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year; that’s quite a lot of money. Maybe I should sack him and give you the job?’
Rob smiled politely.
‘We upped your salary before, maybe we could double it this time?’
The we in this sentence snagged on Rob’s ear. He was aware that Bellquist’s blue eyes were studying him.
‘School fees are expensive and so are new babies, mortgages and maintenance payments and credit card fees. I’m sure it all adds up.’
This deliberately vague but completely accurate thumbnail sketch of Rob’s main outgoings took him by surprise but he did a pretty good job of hiding it. ‘I’ll speak to Carver. I’ll do my best.’
Bellquist nodded. ‘No man can ask more.’
Craig was waiting for Rob halfway down the long corridor that led from the MOD entrance to Mariscal’s office. As Rob came closer the permanent secretary pointed a finger at the gloomy-looking portrait in front of him.
‘You remember what I told you before? About the frock-coats.’
Rob looked at the painting: thickly spread oils and almost no light in the thing apart from in the rich red of the man’s face and the white of his mutton-chop sideburns.
‘Henry Brooks,’ the permanent secretary said.
‘Right. Was he a good Secretary of State?’
‘Henry Brooks is the artist. I don’t know who this other fellow is.’ Craig pointed again. There at the bottom of the flaking, caramelised lacquer frame was a small rectangle, lighter in colour. ‘His nameplate appears to have fallen off. Shall we talk upstairs?’
‘Of course.’
They took the lift to the top floor and walked once more to the part of the building where the renovation work was being done. The workmen hadn’t arrived yet but progress had been made: new sash windows were in place on the river side and the room smelled of fresh sawn wood. Craig glanced up at the ceiling, which was newly plastered but hung with bare light bulbs.
‘How was Mr Bellquist then?’
‘He’s … worried, I would say.’
‘Worried, I see. And he wants you to help ease his worries?’
Rob nodded.
‘By putting some sort of pressure on your friend William Carver no doubt?’
Mariscal nodded. ‘Yes, although he’s a former friend really.’
Craig noted this. ‘What exactly does Bellquist want?’
Rob gave his boss as concise a summary of the conversation as he thought he could get away with. As he heard himself speak, he realised he was already trying to minimise the seriousness of the plan. Perhaps he’d already decided what he was going to do? Perhaps Craig could help him decide?
‘What do you think?’
The civil servant shook his head. ‘What do I think of blackmail? I don’t like it. I think that Mr Bellquist has overstepped the mark.’
‘I see.’
‘You refused of course?’
Rob paused. ‘I didn’t exactly refuse.’
Craig frowned. ‘You thought that I might desire that you do this thing?’
‘I suppose so. Yes.’
‘Well, I do not. Absolutely not. I am too old to rage, and too compromised as well. But I still have one or two principles left. What Bellquist is proposing is far beyond the pale.’ The permanent secretary glanced around the room – half a dozen workbenches and planks of wood stacked according to its length and thickness. ‘Did he give you any clue as to why he thinks something so extreme is necessary?’
Rob had no trouble recalling the details. ‘He said there were a lot of things in play right now.’
Craig harrumphed. ‘There is no arguing with that.’
‘He said that new opportunities were opening up, he couldn’t afford to take any risks.’
Craig nodded slowly. ‘Did he? Well, that’s interesting.’ Craig paused. ‘Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made: do you know that one?’
Rob shook his head.
‘Immanuel Kant.’ Craig was rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet, thinking. ‘I fear that Mr Bellquist is playing us for a fool. Will you accompany me back down to my office, Robert? I promise I won’t take too much more of your time.’
On the way down the permanent secretary spoke little and what he did say was obscure, almost gnomic.
‘We opened a door and he simply walked through it. Or rather, I opened the door. Under instruction of course, but that is no excuse.’
They were at Craig’s office and he was about to turn the brass doorknob when he stopped. ‘I wonder, Robert, did Bellquist mention anything about your future? A doubling of your salary or something similar?’
Rob gazed down at the carpet; the pattern had been worn clean away. ‘He did mention something like that, yes.’
‘Mr Bellquist is clever, he knows that dangling a lure like that can do things to a man’s judgement. His moral compass.’
‘Yes.’
Craig was watching him, his hand still on the doorknob and still not turning it. ‘Imagining what life might be like with twice the money you have now is unsettling. You’re not the first person Bellquist has talked to in this way, you won’t be the last.’
Mariscal nodded. ‘He sa
id that every man has his price. You just have to find out what it is and then decide whether you are willing to pay it.’
Craig smiled. ‘I see, so you’re probably wondering whether that includes me? Do I have a price and if I do – has Bellquist paid it?’
‘Has he?’
‘No, Bellquist hasn’t bought me. Not yet …’ The permanent secretary paused and then pushed the door open and walked in, followed by Rob. ‘But he’s tried.’
‘How?’
Craig sighed. ‘I mentioned it to you once: Kinbane Head. It’s a spot near Ballycastle. Me and my old dad used to go fishing there every summer; we holidayed nearby.’
Mariscal nodded.
‘The best house on the Head came up for sale a few years back. I didn’t really have the money but I tried to buy it anyhow. I got close; right up to the very end of the auction I was ahead and I thought I had it. Then I was outbid, hugely outbid – by telephone.’ Craig went and sat down behind his desk. ‘Victor Bellquist bought the property, or someone acting on his behalf. Using company money I have no doubt. He got the house and the wee piece of land around it too.’
Mariscal looked at Craig; sitting behind the desk he appeared smaller now, vulnerable. ‘I’m sorry.’ He searched for something to say. ‘You wanted to sit and watch the sunset?’
Craig lifted his head. ‘Wrong coast.’
‘What?’
‘The house is on the other coast. The sun comes up right outside the front door, that’s what I wanted. I’ve been working on British defence and foreign policy for forty years – it’s been nothing but sunsets. A long string of unsatisfactory and unimpressive sunsets. I wanted to watch the sun rise.’
‘I see.’
Craig shuffled some papers around on his desk. ‘Every few months Mr Bellquist mentions the house and every few months I ignore him. Look at all this here’ – he pointed at the papers – ‘the latest list of exports that I am supposed to turn my blind eye to. Hard to believe that our Egyptian friends would have need of all this, but I turn the blind eye. Like the loyal Cyclops I am.’ Craig covered one eye with his chubby hand and forced a smile. He glanced at the papers and then at Rob. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment, Robert? I need to go and check whether Miriam is here.’
A Single Source Page 27
